


the line between reality and fantasy

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Camboy Harry, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: there's something just a little ... odd, about zayn's new flatmate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is another repost of an old fic, which I previously deleted. I've given it a very brief edit, and now it's out in the world again ... enjoy! you can find me at [extravirgo](http://extravirgo.tumblr.com), if you're interested.

‘I dunno, he’s just always in his room,’ Zayn mutters to Niall, setting down two bottles of Peroni and a bowl of cheesy Doritos. ‘Like, I know I’m reserved and shit, but he just ... I never see him? He’s either out, or he’s in his room.’

Niall frowns and takes a generous swig of his beer, hand already delved into the crisps. ‘Sounds like a fuckin’ weirdo, mate,’ he says passionately, nodding abstractly when Zayn flicks to Alan Carr on the telly. ‘Has he not got any mates? Anyone come ‘round?’

Zayn shakes his head and shrugs at the same time; he’s only lived here like ... a month, and if he’s honest he’s not in the house or out of his room that much himself, especially considering he’s seemingly not got a flatmate to try and bond with, but he’s never seen anyone come to visit Harry. ‘I don’t think so? I mean, he goes out dressed up and I hear him on the phone a lot, so I guess he has mates, but ...’ he trails off and shrugs again, leaning back into the throw cushions in the corner of the chair.

Niall hums and wrinkles his nose, looking suspicious. ‘Do you think he’s a hooker?’ he asks seriously and Zayn nearly snorts beer out of his nose.

‘Fuck, no, that’s not what I’m thinking,’ he laughs and then cuts off, at the sound of the key in the lock of the front door. ‘Shit, shut up,’ he hisses and Niall raises his eyebrows and stuffs a handful of Doritos into his mouth, as Harry shuts the door and walks up the hall, his boots clicking.

Zayn focuses unrealistically hard on Alan Carr interviewing Darcey Bussell and Bruno Tonioli, his palm sweaty against the slick condensation of his beer. His cheeks feel hot and it makes him scowl.

‘Alright, mate?’ says Niall loudly, around his mouthful of orange gunk and Zayn snaps his head to the side, nostrils flaring. Harry’s paused walking behind the sofa, staring down at them with the carefully bland expression Zayn’s come to recognise well from their brief encounters in the hallways and shared areas of the flat. It’s particularly disconcerting when you’re scurrying from the bathroom in a towel that barely covers the tip of your dick.

‘Alright?’ Harry sort of questions back, his posture kind of poised indecisively between hurrying to his bedroom and stopping to chat.

Niall swallows and grins, holding out a cheese-dust smeared hand over the back of the sofa. To his credit, Harry doesn’t flinch, even though his shirt looks like it cost more than their monthly rent; instead, he reaches out and shakes Niall’s hand firmly, a shy smile twisting his lips. Zayn feels sort of outraged.

‘I’m Niall, since Zayn’s too rude to do the introductions,’ Niall carries on, giving Zayn a ‘what the fuck, bro?’ look. ‘You must be the mysterious Harry.’

‘I dunno about mysterious,’ Harry demurs, eyes casting down and to the side, sort of in Zayn’s direction. The slightly dirty twists of his long curls drag against the planes of his cheek, dotted with moles. Zayn kind of wants to storm off to his room in a huff. ‘Zayn’s the mysterious one, I think,’ he adds, kind of teasingly and Niall laughs, raising his eyebrows.

‘Zayn only wants to be mysterious, just get to know him and he’s an open book,’ Niall says and Zayn scoffs, turning away from them both to swig his beer.

‘I don’t wish I was anything,’ he says gruffly and then, because it would be rude not to, ‘you can join us, if you want?’ He slides his eyes over to Harry again, who looks unaccountably sad.

‘I wish I could,’ he says, like he actually does wish it. ‘I’ve got - I promised I’d Skype my mum,’ he says, in the weird evasive way he always does. He’s always Skyping someone, or has to call his sister, or needs a nap after a long day’s work.

‘Sure,’ Niall says easily, ‘feel free to join when you’re done, if you want.’

Zayn sort of nods and Harry beams, his wide mouth split into the bright whiteness of his teeth. It makes his lips look redder and Zayn tries not to flush, turning away quickly as Harry walks down the hall and into his room.

‘He seems nice,’ Niall says reprovingly, once they’ve heard the snick of Harry’s door and the volume of the telly’s up again.

Zayn sighs and shrugs and pouts a bit, because he doesn’t have that natural way about him that Niall does; the way he can just get people to open up and want to be around him. Zayn has to work, and if the other person isn’t putting in any effort, he finds it hard.

‘He won’t come back out, though,’ he grumbles, flicking to the movie channels to see what’s on. Zayn’s not exactly happy when he’s proved right.

  
—————

 

Something breaks after that night, though, and Harry’s suddenly _trying_ with Zayn. It’s kind of overwhelming, if he’s honest; to go from feeling like you practically live alone, to having what amounts to a anthropomorphic puppy as a flatmate.

Harry knocks on his bedroom door one morning, and on Zayn’s go ahead he barges in with a plate stacked with buttered toast balanced on top of two steaming mugs of milky, sugary tea. He then proceeds to gradually sprawl further and further over Zayn’s bed and, by extension, Zayn himself, rambling at length about his night out.

It turns out that Harry is something of a social butterfly; he’s friends with some indie radio DJ and fucking Daisy Lowe and on Sundays he has a standing date with that bloke off the telly, James Corden, and his wife. It’s kind of insane, the way he talks about them so casually, when Zayn’s wanked to Daisy Lowe’s _Playboy_ shoot at least three times.

He doesn’t tell Harry that part.

Harry starts making enough dinner for two, when he’s in, leaving Zayn’s in a bowl in the oven when he’s going to be back from his studio late. He invites Zayn out to the pub with Nick Grimshaw, and flops his curls into Zayn’s lap on Saturday mornings after dates, telling him all the sordid details of his failing love life. He somehow ends up with Zayn’s mum’s number and texts her more than Zayn does, reassuring her that her son’s eating enough greens and drinking enough water. He pinches a Mulberry bag from the magazine he works at, as a lowly features assistant, and tells Zayn it’s for Waliyha.

It makes the intermittent times he spends hours in his room that much weirder.

‘Skyping my mum,’ he’ll say and it’s almost like an automatic thing, he’ll glance at his rose-gold fuck-off watch (which, who the fuck bought him that, because it’s not the kind of shit you just pick up, even if you do work for _i-D_ ) and jump up from the sofa where they’ve been sprawled out eating Doritos (Zayn) and carrot sticks with houmous (Harry), scuttling off to his room with an apologetic moue.

Zayn’s pretty sure he’s not Skyping his mum, because Anne loves Harry, but she’s got her own life going on, far as Zayn can tell. She’s a lady who lunches, with G&Ts and prosecco and Instagrams of herself and the girls at the pub. Sometimes when she’s supposed to be Skyping her son.

‘You ever gonna tell me what you’re really doing, when you’re supposedly Skyping your mum?’ Zayn asks one Saturday evening.

He’s got Harry curled up over his chest, thumbing through his Twitter feed, their breathing synced. It’s ... it’s kind of lot, or it’s getting to be, how he feels about Harry. Harry with his wide- spaced, sea-green eyes and mole-dotted pale skin; his jailhouse tattoos and endless, endless legs in skin-tight black denim. Harry, who knows just how to make Zayn a proper cuppa, and just when to leave him alone to stew over some painting that’s not going right. Harry, who licks his lips nervously and peers up at Zayn through his freshly-washed curls like a child caught nicking pick’n’mix.

‘What d’you mean?’ he asks, in the variation of his slow drawl that spells avoidance and awkwardness.

‘Like ... it’s cool if you don’t want to tell me, I guess,’ Zayn mumbles, crooking his knee against Harry’s ribs. ‘Just - you don’t have to lie. Like, I get more than anyone needing time alone, right?’ That doesn’t seem right though; Harry’s needier than a newborn kitten, always pushing for cuddles and playful wrestling and playfully rubbing his nose and cheek against Zayn’s stubble, eyes bright and happy and -

‘I’m a camboy,’ he says slowly, eyes casting back down to the screen of his phone. Zayn blinks and makes a questioning noise. He can see Harry’s cheeks slowly heating, blotches of red smearing like watercolour over his cheekbones and down the back of his neck, beneath his white t- shirt. ‘Like, I let people watch me do stuff on camera, for money,’ he carries on, voice careful and practised and kind of Not Harry.

‘Oh,’ says Zayn faintly. ‘That’s ...’ He doesn’t really know what that is, both literally and emotionally.

Harry’s slowly pushing himself up and away from the slouch of Zayn’s body, expression back to that careful blank he’d had nearly five months ago now, when Zayn first moved in. ‘You find it weird,’ he’s muttering, just as Zayn says, ‘That’s cool,’ and grasps Harry’s forearm, to stop him moving further away.

‘I mean, not cool, just - it’s fine,’ he says awkwardly, watching Harry carefully to try and figure out what’s best to say. ‘It’s your choice,’ he settles on and Harry sort of relaxes, leaning himself back down along the length of Zayn’s body with a sigh.

‘Some people,’ he says slowly, settling his face into the dip between Zayn’s arm and his chest, ‘will pay a lot of money to watch you wank and drink a large bottle of cherryade, at the same time.’

‘Fuck.’ Zayn sort of laughs disbelievingly and says, ‘You’re kidding?’

Harry shakes his head and presses his nose sort of close to Zayn’s armpit, a smile twitching at his lips. It drags them across Zayn’s bare skin and he shivers. ‘Nope. And weirder shit than that, too,’ he adds mischievously, drumming his fingers along Zayn’s abs. ‘One guy regularly pays me, like, two hundred quid to jerk myself off crying and calling him Daddy.’

Zayn goes hot all over at that and hides half of his face with his hand. ‘Why am I not surprised that this is something you would have no problem doing and even be good at,’ he mumbles and Harry slaps at his stomach, rolling his eyes.

‘Anyone could do it,’ he says flippantly and then he bites Zayn’s bicep. ‘You could do it,’ he murmurs, expression complicated.

‘No, I really don’t think I could.’ He imagines performing for someone like that; letting them tell him what to do, not knowing who they are; and it makes him feel a bit anxious. ‘No,’ he says more firmly and Harry seems to get it, because he nods and leans up to give Zayn a kiss on the cheek.

‘Okay,’ he says simply. ‘Anyway, we should watch _Four Weddings & A Funeral_. Please.’ Zayn acquiesces mainly because he’s still in shock.

  
—————

 

From there, it becomes unsurprisingly more complicated. Now that he knows what Harry’s doing behind his door, it makes Zayn restless; not because he feels possessive or jealous or even disgusted, but because - he can’t help imagining it. He’s seen Harry all but completely naked, but it’s not like tiny grey boxers hide much anyway; and he’s heard Harry moaning a couple of times, when the flat’s been really quiet. So, it’s not too hard to let his mind stray to Harry sitting in front of a camera getting himself off for faceless, cash-rich men with kinks too weird to ask your garden- variety club hook-up to fulfil.

More than this, with the new level of truthfulness between them, Harry sometimes can’t seem to help himself from telling Zayn about the weirder shit he gets paid to perform. Zayn supposes a lot of it is just sitting back and getting yourself off, really showing someone how you make yourself feel good; maybe pressing a few fingers into your arse and showing it off, if they’re willing to pay a bit more. Some of it though - some of it is freaky.

‘So, he emails me,’ Harry’s saying, over a banana and a spinich, carrot and ginger smoothie, ‘and asks how much do I charge for someone to watch me fucking myself with a vibrator, wearing a bra and knickers.’ He chomps down on the banana and Zayn pretends he’s not flustered, squirting brown sauce over his fried egg sarnie with an audible splurt.

‘Which, like, obviously he has to cover the underwear so it depended on the quality, which, he's the one who mentioned Agent Provocateur, not me. Then there’s extra just for the inconvenience and the niche,’ Harry meanders on, sipping his smoothie. He has that careless, wide-eyed, just-woke-up look about his face that drives Zayn a bit mad. Zayn bites into his sandwich and makes an agreeable noise, valiantly fighting back any and all visuals his brain tries to create.

‘So I gave him an estimate - one-fifty odd, plus the lingerie, which is pretty generous, ‘cause most people charge way more - and then he says, and then could you eat chocolate cake at the same time!’ Harry punctuates this by waving his banana about and dribbling green smoothie down his chin. Zayn wonders how you can be both endeared by someone and also wildly turned on by them at the same time.

‘I hope you charged him double, that goes right against your beliefs about unrefined sugar,’ Zayn comments around his mouthful of egg, expression half-teasing.

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘No, obviously I baked a gluten-free one, with Fairtrade chocolate. Daisy had a great recipe in her book. Don’t laugh!’ he squawks, as Zayn nearly falls off his chair giggling. ‘Anyway, I got two-hundred and fifty quid out of it, so that’s nothing to laugh at.’

He’s right. Zayn does not laugh when, in the shower, he comes to the image of Harry in black lacy underwear, a vibrator pressed up inside of him and chocolate smeared all around his pink lips, mouth slightly open on a moan and eyes glossy and tearful.

He wonders, often, if Harry knows how he feels about him. They’re so close now; the kind of close where if Harry’s feeling down, he’ll just walk in and curl himself on Zayn’s bed, back to the wall and his face pressed into Zayn’s neck. The kind of close where Harry lets Zayn know all of his plans for the week and when he’ll be in, so that they can organise time together, according to both of their schedules. Zayn’s pretty sure they might actually be a couple.

 

—————

 

It comes to a head during their seventh month of living together. Zayn comes home slightly earlier than planned - the result of a frustrating evening at his studio, where nothing seemed to go right - and finds Harry stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but a tight pair of bright red boxer briefs with white trim, a white vest, white socks to his knees with red bands around the top, and some scuffed white high-tops. He looks up from his chopped banana on toast in surprise, when Zayn drops his keys onto the table.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ he drawls, eyeing Harry’s outfit with a raised eyebrow.

‘Darling, I wasn’t prepared,’ Harry murmurs, fluttering his eyelashes and cocking one hip.

‘What are you prepared for?’ asks Zayn, half laughing, and Harry rolls his eyes.

‘It’s a cam thing,’ he says easily, and munches on some toast, eyes shutting with bliss. Zayn’s never known anyone love fruit like Harry loves banana. ‘I’m a sweaty teenager just done with his sports practise and I’m about to get off thinking about my coach fucking me in the showers.’ He smirks at Zayn’s slightly stunned look and snaps the waistband of the boxers. ‘Dirty, I know.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Zayn says, rather than, _I love that you’re like this_.

He feels like Harry got the meaning anyway, from the way his eyes go a bit soft. ‘You can watch if you like?’ he says after a few moments, while Zayn’s opening a beer and searching the fridge for something easy to eat. He nearly drops the beer, standing up quickly to give Harry a questioning look. ‘I mean - if you wanted - I don’t know, it was just a thought,’ Harry mumbles, chucking the last crust of his toast into the sink.

‘I mean,’ Zayn flounders, rubbing his hand over the shorn crown of his head. ‘Do you want me to watch?’

‘I like it when people watch me,’ Harry says quickly, his cheeks hot red. It matches his boxers and his socks and the rubber trim of his ankle-high Converse, Zayn thinks absently.

‘Alright,’ he says faintly and Harry sort of smiles, shy and lovely and soft and - about to show Zayn something really, really private.

‘Alright,’ Harry repeats and then he leads the way out of the kitchen and through the living room to his bedroom.

It’s a good size - slightly smaller than Zayn’s, actually - with the double bed pushed up against the window and a desk at the bottom of the bed. Harry pushes his fancy, swivelling office chair over to the wall furthest from the bed and flaps his hands to get Zayn to sit down. It’s comfy, made out of a kind of bracing net that supports his back.

Harry busies himself ruffling up his bed - plain white sheets, five pillows at the top - and then sets up the laptop with a weird kind of practised ease. ‘Okay,’ he says slowly, when he’s apparently ready. ‘Wait here, I just need to - I’ll be like, five minutes, I think.’ He grins at Zayn and half-jogs out of the room. A second later, Zayn hears the bathroom door shut and the shower start.

He looks around Harry’s room a bit more; he’s not been in here much, because they hang out in the living room or Zayn’s room the most. It’s plain, but nice; Harry has fairy-lights strung up over the black iron bed rungs, and over the wardrobe and down over the window-ledge towards the desk. His walls are covered with little Polaroids and photobooth shots; postcards and a couple of film posters, one for Titanic and the other for A Bout de Soufflé. His desk itself it pretty bare, but the wardrobe and dresser have more photos in frames, along with Lush products and Tom Ford cologne.

The shower shuts off and Harry wanders back in, shutting the door behind him. Zayn laughs, because he has to give it to Harry; he knows his shit. The steam from standing in the small bathroom with the hot shower has left him flushed and slick with sweat.

He puts a finger to his lips, even though he’s got a smug smile on his face. ‘You’ve got to be like, dead silent,’ he says quietly, even though the camera’s not on yet. ‘You can get off if you find it hot though,’ he adds, smirking dirtily. Zayn just rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair.

Harry wakes his MacBook back up and types a couple of things in, before leaning down to one of the desk drawers and pulling out an obnoxious blue vibrator. Zayn looks up the ceiling and wonders exactly what he’s let himself in for.

Chucking the vibrator down onto the duvet, Harry perches on the end of the bed and spreads his legs, leaning back on his hands to show himself off. The room’s quiet and tense for about fifteen seconds, that feel like fifteen hours, before Harry visibly tenses his body and makes a weird, sulky kind of face.

‘Hi,’ he mumbles towards the screen of his laptop, face tipped down but eyes gazing upwards through the damp strands of his hair moodily. ‘I just got back from football practise,’ he says, shifting back on the duvet and tilting his hips a bit. One of his hands comes up from the duvet to rub over the top of his thigh, fingers digging into the flesh, leaving white trails. ‘So sore,’ he groans and tips his head back, the hand still on the duvet slipping as his body stretches out.

‘Mmm,’ he groans, spreading his thighs wider and rubbing further in and further up, his thumb sneaking beneath the hem of his boxer leg. ‘Got so sweaty and ... worked up,’ he drawls and he skips his hand up to his abdomen, dragging the material of his thin vest up to show hints of the skin beneath, flashes of black where his laurel tattoos sit. ‘Should have taken a shower afterwards, but ...’

He thumbs over the peak of one of his nipples through the vest and gasps, low, licking out at his lips. Zayn can see where he’s chubbing up in his pants; the shape of his cock starting to press against the bright red. ‘I can’t shower with all the other boys, though,’ he whines, tipping his head back down to stare imploringly at the screen. He looks embarrassed, sort of shamed, with his bright pink cheeks and eyes still a little glassy from the steam of the shower. ‘I just get too hard,’ he carries on in a loud whisper and his hand drops from where it was massaging his pec, to cup around the heft of his dick.

He pulls at himself through his pants and spreads his legs, anchoring himself against the floor. His legs look ridiculously long and Zayn wonders how much his mystery viewer can see; whether he can just see the tight thickness of his thighs, or the slender curve of his calves in the long, white gym socks as well. Harry must wonder the same, because he adjusts suddenly and pulls one leg up to his body, resting the heel of his shoe against the edge of the bed.

From where he’s sat, adjacent to the desk and the laptop, Zayn can see the swell of his balls and the way the red material of the boxers creases into his crack. Harry’s pouting and rubbing over the growing bulge of his cock, his other hand loosely wrapped around the ankle of his baseball boot.

‘I just can’t stop thinking about my coach,’ he says like a secret, tugging at his balls and then tweaking his nipple, like he’s restless just thinking about it. ‘You wanna know what I think about?’ he asks and Zayn nearly blurts out a yes, might have done if he didn’t have the edge of his thumb stuck between his teeth. He almost expects a voice to come out of the computer though, but Harry just lets a pregnant pause fill the air.

‘I think about him taking me in the showers,’ he says eventually, as though he’s had an answer, and then he dips his hand below the waistband of his boxers and pulls his dick up, palm closing over the head as he gives it a rough jerk. Moaning he scoots back on the bed and brings his other leg up, spreading them both further out and bracing himself with one hand behind himself. ‘I think about all the other boys leaving and I’m the last there,’ he says breathlessly, pulling his foreskin back and forth as he gets harder.

He’s got a really, really nice dick, Zayn thinks. Thick and pink at the head, when it peeks through. He thinks about sucking it, hollowing his cheeks out around it and tasting Harry’s pre-come over the back of his tongue, and he palms himself for the first time, saliva making his cheeks tingle.

Moaning louder, Harry tips his head back, showing off the pink, corded length of his neck. He’s got moles dotted down one side; freckles from a hot summer spattered over the other, closer to his shoulder. ‘I’m the last one there and he comes in and finds me, naked in the shower and touching myself.’ His voice is one long, low, sultry drawl, with the vague whine of a teenager hinting at the back of it. ‘I’m all wet and hard and gagging for it,’ he groans and his hand leaves his cock to press at his hole through the cotton of his pants. ‘Fucking gagging for someone to take me,’ he growls and Zayn’s dick presses up against the material of his joggers.

Harry’s panting now, kneading his fingers against his taint and his hole, hips rolling into it and sweat starting to bead along his collarbones. ‘He doesn’t care that I’m only seventeen, he loves it,’ Harry moans and Zayn wishes that was a turn-off, but it’s not. He’s dragged into this fantasy, of seventeen-year-old Harry in the changing room showers, pink-cheeked and touching himself while he dirty football coach watches.

‘God, I want it so bad,’ Harry whines and he tugs the edge of his boxers to the side, sneaking his fingers beneath to press at the skin beneath. ‘I want him to fuck me, so bad,’ he moans and then he’s reaching behind himself for a bottle of lube Zayn hadn’t even noticed, sitting up a little to squirt it onto his fingers. He looks narrow and long, but also - young and desperate, and it’s fucking hot, Zayn thinks, watching him act like he’s this cock-starved.

‘Want him to eat me out,’ Harry says absently, as he settles back on one elbow, knees drawn up to either side of himself, and slips his fingers back beneath his pants to press against his hole. ‘Fuck, I want him to kneel down behind me in the shower and just - shove me forward.’ Harry’s breath and hips hitch and Zayn watches his dick jerk, where he’s pressed up towards his belly by the waistband of his pants.

‘Fucking eat me,’ Harry moans, his cheeks getting redder with the slow press of his own fingers. ‘Just pull me apart and fuck my arse with his tongue, even though I’m still all sweaty and dirty.’ Harry really seems to be into this, Zayn thinks; but then so is Zayn, if the wet spot spreading at the crotch of his sweats is anything to go by. Swallowing, he shifts ever so gently and quietly, and slips his hand into his trousers, sighing soundlessly at the relief of pressure just the touch of his hand brings.

Harry slowly, with a bit of a wobble, sits himself up straight and pulls his hand from his pants. ‘I just always need more,’ he mumbles, as though to himself. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his clean hand and starts to wiggle his pants fully off, letting his legs kick out as he unhooks them from his feet. Zayn can see the flash of his arse and then he’s just in a vest, socks and shoes; which should be ridiculous, but it’s sort of not.

‘Every time I finish practise, I have to come home and do this,’ he’s saying, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and picking up the blue vibrator. He lifts it to his face and starts to lick it with broad strokes of his tongue, before he pushes it into his mouth and into his cheek, eyes heavily- lidded and staring directly down the camera. ‘Need to imagine him fucking my mouth,’ he says, soft and blurred as he rubs the tip of the dildo along his lips. ‘Fucking my virgin hole,’ he breathes, bringing one foot up and dipping the dildo down to press into the dark pink skin beneath his balls.

Jesus, Zayn thinks, a bit dazed. This is fucking - serious shit, not exactly what he’d ever imagined. He’d also never factored in Harry being this good at it; the kind of good that makes you slip into the fantasy with him.

‘He’s got a really big cock,’ Harry’s saying, as he slathers the vibrator with lube, biting his bottom lip with an innocent kind of concentration. ‘I’ve seen it through his shorts, like. I know it’d split me in half.’ He whimpers and drops his lube-slick hand to fist his thick cock, hips jerking to try and fuck forward into the wet grip. His slit’s starting to drip, pre-come smearing down to where his foreskin’s fully pulled back, with how hard he is. ‘I want it to hurt though, I want him to fuck me down into the pitch, where anyone could see.’

Harry makes a wet, gasping sound and holds himself tight at the base of his cock. He’s gone bright pink, his eyes glassy and his mouth wet and open as he trembles. ‘Fuck,’ he whispers and Zayn wonders how much of this is real and how much is an act, because if it’s any of the latter he’s impressed. His own dick’s hard as a rock and he slips it out to sit over the waistband of his joggers, the head leaking against his belly. He wants to stand up and stride over and dick into Harry like he’s begging for. Turn him over and press into him until he’s crying for it.

‘Gets me so hot, just thinking about it,’ Harry’s saying, scrambling back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, before he’s arranged himself against the pile of pillows he’d ruffled up in the middle earlier on. ‘Have to fill myself up, pretend it’s him.’ He plants his baseball boot-clad feet solidly to either side and brings the slicked up vibrator down to press against his hole. ‘Pretend he’s popping my cherry every fucking time, taking me without even properly asking.’ Harry clearly runs his mouth, working himself up thinking about it and pinching his own nipples through his vest with one hand, while the other slowly works the vibrator into himself with short, sharp thrusts.

‘Imagine him pulling me back at the end of the game and shoving me up against the goalpost, pulling my shorts down and pressing that thick cock between my legs, coming all over my thighs and feeding it to me afterwards.’ Harry starts to whine wordlessly after that, his thighs twitching as he fucks himself harder and harder. He seems to remember it’s a vibe and flicks it on suddenly, yelping and whining at the shock of the buzz. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he keens, wrapping his hand back around his cock and tugging. One of his legs kicks out and sprawls and Zayn can imagine his toes curling in his shoes.

‘I wanna ride him in his office chair, wanna bury my face in his pit and mark myself up,’ Harry’s practically shouting and Zayn hisses in a sharp breath of air, pushes his hand beneath his pants to tug on his balls, the pressure almost unbearable. ‘Want him to fuck me like an animal, want it every - where.’ Harry gasps and pulls out the vibe, leaving himself clenching on nothing as he scrambles up to his knees and spreads out, fisting his cock hard and fast, head on to the camera.

‘Oh fuck, I’m gonna come so hard,’ he hisses, reaching behind himself to press against his hole. ‘Come everywhere, just fucking cream myself thinking - about - ’ He whimpers and shudders, pressing his cock up against the heaving, sweaty skin of his belly as he starts to come. It stripes his torso and leaks back down as he slumps, legs coming out from beneath him as he collapses into a broken sprawl, still weakly tugging at his cock.

The room’s silent then, but for the sound of Harry’s harsh panting and the buzz of the vibrator, never actually turned off. ‘You can shut the laptop and come over,’ he says eventually and Zayn nearly jumps out of his skin, making an undignified noise. ‘Seriously, please,’ Harry adds, popping his head up from the duvet and smiling dazedly in Zayn’s direction.

Zayn kind of nods and stands, walking awkwardly with his dick hanging out and hard, to shut the laptop and then to knee up on the bed. He hovers over Harry awkwardly for a moment, very aware of both his own erection and the splatters of come up Harry’s exposed stomach and over his vest. ‘Um,’ he says eloquently and Harry laughs, pulling him down with a sweaty hand around the back of his neck.

‘Um,’ he replies and kisses Zayn hard, all slick lips and hot tongue and body moulding up against his. ‘You wanna fuck me, or is it too soon?’ he asks breathlessly, when they break apart. His eyes are dark and hot and - God, Zayn really wants to, even if it’s a bit ridiculous that they fuck mere seconds after their first kiss. He’s pretty sure they’ve been together for ages in practise, anyway.

‘If you’re sure,’ he mutters, pushing his joggers all the way off and letting himself settle between Harry’s spread legs. He gets his hands on his thighs and squeezes, liking how Harry pants and smiles dazedly, nodding quickly.

‘Very sure, please. Condoms are in the desk drawer.’ Zayn gives his thighs one more squeeze and leans down to lick up a stripe of come, pleased with how it makes Harry’s dick twitch against his hip.

Once the condom’s rolled on, he gets back between Harry’s legs and leans down into him, pulling their bodies flush. ‘You want me to fuck you like an animal?’ he asks roughly, the head of his cock slipping in the slick of lube still smeared around Harry’s hole. ‘Fuck you down into the bed and mark you up?’

Harry whimpers and sets his teeth into Zayn’s collarbone. ‘You gonna pop my cherry, Sir?’ he asks and Zayn’s suddenly very aware of the socks and boots, as Harry’s legs come up to bracket his sides.

Swallowing, he mutters a harsh yes and starts to press in. Harry chokes a bit and his eyes widen, thighs falling to the side as he bears down. ‘Jesus, you’re thick,’ he mumbles, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. ‘Christ.’

Zayn’s had this reaction before, but it’s beautiful on Harry; the way his neck goes pink and corded and his cock fattens up easily against his belly, starting to leak by the time Zayn’s bottomed out. ‘Y’alright?’ he asks quietly, circling his hips gently and smirking at the gutted groan Harry makes. ‘You like that? Hitting you right?’

‘So right,’ Harry moans, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s neck and rolling his hips. ‘Fuck me, come on.’

‘Not gonna last long,’ Zayn warns, because Harry’s tight and hot even through the condom, and the way he rolls his hips is really fucking good.

’S’alright,’ Harry mumbles. ‘Can we just - on my knees? Sorry, I just -’ He stops when Zayn kisses him hard, before letting him roll over, holding on to the condom as he slips out. Harry settles on his front and draws one leg up. Zayn swallows, because he’s got the vest and the fucking socks on and it looks - it looks really fucking indecent and Zayn can’t handle it.

He lowers himself and fits in behind him, fits his dick back up against his hole and pushes, Harry’s drawn out whines making him harder. ’S’your tight virgin hole,’ Zayn mutters, feeling dirty and gross, but Harry just whimpers and presses back against him, face sweaty and half-pressed into the cross of his forearms.

‘Fuck me, Sir,’ he moans, licking his lips and Zayn does, gripping onto the meat of Harry’s arse with one hand, the other looming over him to press against the mattress, and dicking him hard. Harry groans and shifts to push back against him, bowing his back to take it.

‘You’re amazing,’ Zayn half-laughs and Harry clenches around him, half-smirking. ‘Gonna come,’ he adds and grunts, pushing Harry down into the sheets and fucking him hard, the sound of their skin slapping loud in the sudden quiet between them. His dick gets harder and thicker and Harry makes a long, low sound of want, his own hand wanking himself beneath his belly.

‘Make me take it,’ Harry’s muttering, the hand not jerking his dick clawing back at Zayn’s skin and Zayn comes with a groan, pulling Harry tight to him and jerking in the condom. It feels like it lasts forever, but Harry’s still panting when he comes to, arm working quick beneath him.

‘No,’ Zayn mumbles and Harry stops (something to think on later, Zayn notes), lets Zayn turn him over and sink down to suck tight on the head of his cock. It’s hot and pulses pre-come over his tongue as Harry moans and fists his hair. Zayn can see his calves in those fucking socks to either side of him, the swell of Harry’s thighs pulled up towards his chest, and he sinks further down, eyes closing and two fingers coming up to press into the loose heat of Harry’s arse.

‘Oh shit,’ Harry shouts and then he’s fucking Zayn’s throat, making him gag loud on both the sudden press and on the thick spurts of come filling his mouth. ‘Oh shit, sorry,’ Harry moans, even as he doesn’t let go of Zayn’s hair, clenching tight around Zayn’s fingers.

When Zayn finally pulls himself up, he’s got come dripping down his chin and Harry’s staring at him like he’s the Messiah.

‘That was alright, then,’ Zayn says eventually, his voice raspy and a bit sore.

‘Sorry, for - I shouldn’t have,’ Harry says, trying to push himself up into a sitting position.

Zayn pushes him back down. ‘It’s fine. I’ll get us a cup of tea and a flannel.’ As a final reassurance, he presses a kiss to Harry’s sweaty temple.

Eventually, they end up sprawled out on the bed with tea, the window thrown open to let in the cool Spring air. Harry hooks their legs together and smiles up at Zayn a bit like he’s in love. Zayn can feel the same expression warping his own face, if he’s honest.

‘So,’ says Harry, his voice rough. ‘Tomorrow, I’ve got a bloke who wants me to cry, wet myself and then jerk myself off. Think you could be into that as well?’


End file.
